


Sea Souls

by nerdygaycas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Era, Credence goes to the ocean for the first time, Fluff, Kinda, Living Together, Lyrical prose, M/M, Ocean, Or so I've been told, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, POV Original Percival Graves, Pining, Sweet, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, i forgot how to use tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdygaycas/pseuds/nerdygaycas
Summary: It’s not that he’s particularly naïve, Merlin’s beard, no. He’s had his fair share of hopes and disappointments in the romantic spectrum. Lovers gone wrong, relationships wilted by the lack of affection or the weight of more pressing responsibilities. It’s not that he’s stupid either.Maybe.He’s trying not to be.***Or, the one where Graves knows he shouldn't be in love with Credence, but ends up inviting him to spend a weekend at the beach together anyway.***





	Sea Souls

**Author's Note:**

> i just... gradence T.T

 

If anyone asked Percival when _it_ began –this feeling that clenches his heart, and climbs from his belly all the way up to the very tip of his tongue, and makes his body sing like a lonely blade of grass in the wind-, he wouldn’t have the first clue.

It’s not that he’s particularly naïve, Merlin’s beard, no. He’s had his fair share of hopes and disappointments in the romantic spectrum. Lovers gone wrong, relationships wilted by the lack of affection or the weight of more pressing responsibilities. It’s not that he’s stupid either.

Maybe.

He’s trying not to be.

He’s trying his damnedest not to let these emotions, rowdy and fizzy, get the best of him. But he’s failing. He knows he is. Because without realizing it, the corners of his lips are curved up in a broad smile that makes his cheeks hurt, and the back of his neck feels a little too hot. Under his collar there’s an unequivocal warmth spreading too, and it suffocates him.

He blames it on the summery breeze that’s making the curtains blow. He blames it on the excessive number of layers, for this time of the year, with which he’s dressed.

“Let’s go to the beach,” he blurts out, without even thinking how awful of an idea that is. Lately, it seems, he does very little thinking.

Lately his heart has taken over his head.

He’s met with a dashing smile from Credence, the type of smile that not everyone gets to see. Percival is selfish, this he’s always known, and he doesn’t mind.

He greedily gulps down every gesture Credence makes. It’s only out of respect for the young man that Percival hasn’t bottled each memory (a rapid grin, or the nervous bite of pinkened lips, or that dreamy stare at the moon when it resembles a distant, glinting pearl looking down at the skyscrapers and veins of the city) for later inspection in his pensieve.

“Okay.”

 

 

Percival is, not for the first time, worrying about the self-destructive nature of his impulsive proposal. At the same time, however, the strings that make up his body quiver with delight as he hears Credence’s excited footsteps on the other side of the wall.

Unconsciously, and against his better judgement, a fire has lit within him. The flames lick the calcic roughness of his ribs, but it’s pleasant. It feels good.

Right.

It also feels like he’s set a trap for himself, and with eyes wide open, he’s walking right into it.

 

 

When they arrive it’s a quarter past midday. The last time Percival came to the beach he was fresh out of Ilvermorny, and determined to make all the reckless decisions associated with youth. It had been two weeks of blissful sunsets lost in the haze of many an emptied bottle and impetuous indulgences.

Previously, he recalled that time of his life with a sense of inevitable melancholy, like a creature that slipped through his fingers without giving him a chance to bid it farewell. Now, standing next to Credence before an open sea of blue, he cringes a little at the memory, or at least at the vestiges of what he _can_ remember.

This time Percival doesn’t want to miss a single second. Not to the comforting lightheadedness of alcohol, not to his own musings.

He wants to take everything in. Everything Credence sees he wants to see too. But it’s much more than that. He craves to rediscover the balmy seashore and the lavender skies through Credence’s eyes, to see and touch and smell and _feel_ everything as if for the very first time.

Percival groans as he catches up with his thoughts, guilt roiling in his stomach.

“This way,” he says, schooling his tone into something more pleasant and carefree than he really feels.

 

 

The cabin is rather modest but ever the cozier for it. The saline breeze drifts in wisps from the deck, and Percival takes their bags to be put away. Credence, like a young child, follows him dutifully down the narrow hall, nearly bumping against him as they come to a halt.

“Which room would you prefer?” Percival asks. Both rooms are similar in size --that is, not very spacious. Percival thinks it’d be smarter to tear down the wall and have a single master bedroom instead.

“Whichever is fine,” replies Credence, softly, warmly.

The delicate notes of his voice trickle towards Percival, and his feet lose steadiness, the ground shifts underneath the soles of his shoes. Percival smiles, mirroring Credence’s own, and sets down the boy’s belongings in the first room, keeping the one farthest to the entrance to himself.

 

 

Cooking spells have never been his forte, but Percival is perfectly able of preparing edible meals with the flick of his wand, accompanied by one or two curses. No matter how clearly he pronounces the incantations, when he bothers voicing them at all, or the curvatures his wand draws, the taste is always a bit off. It’s as if he’s cursed to drain rich flavors from whatever meal he cooks.

Nonetheless, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Credence joyfully taking a bite off his sandwich with sufficient zeal any passerby would envy his tongue.

“I came here when I was about your age,” Percival says, partly to steal Credence’s attention from the lapping sound of the ocean, and partly because he wants to share pieces of his past with the wonderful creature sitting beside him on a tartan blanket.

“Did you?” Credence asks, glancing his way quickly only to stare right back at the blue rival with nothing but rapture.

Percival nods and before he can elaborate, comes Credence’s voice again, weightless and clear, pierced by the rays of light, “I think it’s beautiful,” he says. And this time when he looks back at Percival, his eyes do not flee. Instead he stares fixedly, despite the intensity that Percival’s gaze doubtlessly carries, despite the blush that crawls across the bridge of his nose and makes the apples of his cheeks bloom like roses in the springtime.

“I… Thank you for bringing me here,” Credence says, after taking a deep breath that has his frame shuddering if only for an instant.

Percival shouldn’t gawk, he knows, but he’s close enough he can’t help to lose himself in that lovely full pout, and to his utmost enjoyment a wayward breadcrumb rests near Credence’s mouth, alluring. Vicious.

He reaches with his thumb and brushes it off, allowing himself a single more stroke over the immaculate skin. Credence’s lips are parted thinly, his eyes open wider too. Percival thinks he would never tire of seeing that face, first thing in the morning and last thing before falling asleep, and all the bits in-between.

“Up for a swim?”

 

 

Unsurprisingly Credence does not know how to swim, and even ignores the existence of doggy paddle.

That is not to say he stays away from the water, because he does the very opposite. Percival guesses the boy either shares ancestry with the merfolk or he’s been jinxed by the sea.

It’s only the two of them, the beach otherwise deserted, uncommon for this time of the year, Percival thinks, but then remembers the season has not yet fully commenced, and, anyway, this part of the coast is not the most visited. It was a contributing factor to choosing this place, the scarcity of people.

He is a selfish bastard, but he’s made peace with it.

Credence ends up barefoot, and with his shorts and shirt completely soaked through after having utterly disregarded the mere thought of removing any garments like Percival had so instinctively done as he approached the water.

Credence’s hair, just below his ears, is just as wet as his clothes, and Percival fights the urge to close the gap between them, and comb his fingers through it.

“I love the ocean!” Credence nearly squeals, arms outstretched and face turned up to the cloudless sky. But shortly after he’s hit by a powerful wave that makes him lose his balance.

They’re not too deep inside, the water sitting below their necks, but Percival lurches forward all the same with a gripping fear in his heart.

Credence struggles to stand up on his own, but Percival soon is there to sustain him, sturdy and protective, a mighty shield against the playful wrath of the ocean. He takes Credence by the forearm and pulls him closer, awed by the smile that refuses to leave the boy’s lips. Those dark, usually brooding eyes, are wild with excitement, and as another wave clashes against their bodies, Percival clasps tighter, depositing his other hand in the small of Credence’s back.

The growing thunder of the sea is matched only by the sparkling laugh that emanates from the back of Credence’s throat, and the chorus engulfs all of Percival’s senses.

He’s breathing, but he’s drowning too.

It’s an infectious melody and soon enough Percival bursts with laughter as well. He tastes saltwater and feels the force of the Atlantic trying to pull their bodies deeper into its entrails, and he clings to Credence shamelessly, wrapping his arms around him so tight and needy, as if Credence were a lifeline, and then slender fingers are splayed over his shirtless back, and the body he holds with such passion is pressing flusher against him, and the laughs cease, defeated by the cries of the ancient blue.

They’re left swaying in tandem to the marine tempo, perfectly fitted together, and Percival prays for time to stop.

But it doesn’t.

So, he lets go of Credence, and every drop between them becomes an ocean.

 

 

Darkness has gained territory by the time Percival is finished preparing dinner. The first stars are dotting the firmament, and the view is breathtaking to say the least: porcelain sand glistening by grace of the last valiant rays of the sun, a faraway boat pinned to the horizon, and a vast sky seemingly painted by the oiled fingers of an unseasoned child.

He considers himself the most fortunate man to ever live.

Even if he embraced Credence so tight the boy retreated to his room for most of the afternoon. Even if this weekend will haunt his every day for the years to come. Percival Graves is lucky.

The luckiest.

 

 

They have dinner out on the deck, where a small rickety table is covered with a white tablecloth.

When Percival asked Credence to figure out the lack of lighting situation, he imagined the boy would take it as a chance to practice his magic by enchanting a lantern or any other object, but what he encounters when he comes out carrying their plates is something he’s not certain _how_ Credence managed to produce: a set of candles, tall brass candleholders included.

It all looks sickeningly romantic, and if Percival permits himself the gift of forgetfulness, then he can pretend that’s precisely what this is: the picturesque getaway of two enamored lovers.

And he’ll loathe his own guts once he’s lying on his bed later tonight, thoughts of Credence making him dizzy and inexorably hollow from within, but right now, he can only think about how stunning his boy is. Raven hair tousled by the waves, skin glowing supple in the light of the burning flames.

Credence is a sight to behold, especially in this precious moment before lowering his gaze bashfully, that quick yet blistering spark in his eyes, the coy flare of teeth, the way he seems to hold Percival’s entire world in the tantalizing valley of his upper lip.

“Why don’t you come here more often? I mean --,” he adds hurriedly, as if he’s overstepped an imaginary line he himself drew.

But Credence could never trespass a boundary when it comes to Percival, even if he tried. There are simply no barriers put up to prevent Credence from getting closer.

Yet Percival remains an unexplored field, silently beckoning the boy to approach him, for there’s no other way this could work, if it ever did.

He can’t just pull Credence into this maddened whirl that consumes his every waking second. He can only wait, quiet. He will wait as long as the moon wanes and waxes in the night sky, and even after the oceans have swallowed the lands of the Earth, and nothing but his soul is left.

“Do you not like it?” asks Credence, ripping the poetic veil that has addled his mind.

Percival meditates his answer before giving it, never once letting his eyes stray from Credence’s expectant visage, “I like it,” he admits to himself, his voice sounding alien to his ears, as if the words have been put in his mouth but aren’t quite his, “But I guess the job is not without its drawbacks.”

Credence huffs, and it’s a gesture as bold as Percival has seen all day, somewhat incredulous. As if he does not believe an ounce of Percival’s excuse.

“Then you could never do anything because of your job.”

It’s a blunt observation, and although it brings a certain ache like a dagger twisting in his flesh, it’s true. The appalling honesty of it makes him chuckle.

“We should come here more often,” ventures Credence, and the way he says it betrays the fragility of the suggestion.

But he could ask Percival to collect every seashell on the coast, and Percival would presently be on his feet, under the moonshine, on an endless quest.

Anything with the thinnest opportunity of procuring Credence with happiness, Percival will do.

“I think so too,” he says, aware that he’s putting himself out there just as Credence did a few moments ago. And then, because he can’t keep his word, and the occasion called for a bottle of the crispest sauvignon money could afford, Percival leans over the table and props his chin on his hand.

 _Bold_ , his feverish heart screams. _Foolish_ , a tiny part of his brain whispers, curiously it’s the same part he listens to less and less often nowadays.

 “Would you want us to have a house of our own here, Credence? Right by the sea, quiet, away from the rumpus of the city?”

Away from everyone.

Credence has come to learn Percival doesn’t mind spending money.

He’s had it all his life, old family money and now a salary that exceeds his expenditures by a long shot. For Percival, money is but a means to acquiring and controlling, and so he does not hesitate to purchase whatever catches Credence’s eye.

It shouldn’t make him feel as good as it does, but he can’t subside the contentment he derives from providing Credence with pristine new clothes and piles of books and decadent desserts at the finest restaurants New York has to offer.

And Credence no longer refuses him, accepting innocently and wholeheartedly the spontaneous tokens that dangerously resemble the olden ways of courtship.

“Really? Could we – could we live here? What about your work?”

The fact that it’s Credence the one who grounds the galloping fantasy to the dullness of reality should be alarming, but Percival is drunk on the briny tang of the scallops he just ate and the refreshing gusts that dishevel Credence.

“I’d still have to work, yes. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to escape the city every now and then, does it? Besides, you seem so happy here.”

The light of the candle isn’t truthful, and Percival can’t be certain, but he could almost swear Credence reddens at his words.

 

 

“It’s not just the place, you know,” says Credence, scurrying closer at his side. They’re sitting on the steps of the deck, staring at the beach darkened by the mantle of night.

The only light is that of the moon, it glides over the surface of the ocean and ripples gently like a moving glass.

The temperature has fallen and the breeze no longer carries its estival warmth. It’s not outright cold, but it’s cold enough for Credence to seek heat in his proximity.

“Isn’t it? I thought you quite liked the ocean, more so than it liked you, if I’m completely honest,” this earns him a giggle from his boy, and suddenly his tongue has a mind of its own, free of the constraints of aged wisdom, and he finds himself saying, “You are so beautiful.”

Credence stares at him with open mouth, and it’d be comical if it wasn’t in response to Percival’s idiocy.

He summons the opened bottle of wine and pours himself another glass, because he can. Because it’s something to do, and because attempting to tether Credence with a house by the sea is the worst idea he could’ve come up with. And he was made Head of Magical Security at twenty-nine, he’s full of bad ideas.

“But you’re right. I do have to work.”

It feels like he’s turning the page. If he could he’d close the goddamn book, but he’s never been able to resist Credence for too long, can’t stray too far, can’t live without knowing Credence is safe and happy and healthy.

And his.

But that’s a secret he keeps under lock and key, and shares only with his pillow.

Lately he’s been failing, he knows.

Lately the gravitational pull that is Credence tugs him closer than ever with such force that Percival wonders if something has triggered a change in Credence. If somehow he isn’t floating alone in this maelstrom anymore.

 

 

He wakes up to the song of seagulls and the smell of scrambled eggs.

“Morning,” he says upon entering the kitchen, feet heavy on the wooden floors.

“Good morning,” replies Credence while he stirs the contents of the pan. Percival aches to cut the miles of space that divide them, and wrap his arms around the boy’s waist, nuzzle the place where neck meets shoulder, and pepper his nape with kisses.

He takes a seat at the table and opens a copy of the New York Ghost, delivered by his most trusted owl, a tawny old thing he calls Crook.

He has not yet made it to the third page when the paper is snatched from his hands by Credence, who sets a brimming plate before him, “You said we would get _away_ for the weekend.”

Percival frowns for a second, but the sizzling aroma springing beneath his nose vanishes the scowl immediately.

“We would. We _did_.”

“No. _This_ is not getting away, Percival,” it’s perhaps the first time Credence admonishes him (the times he yells hurt and fearful at Percival whenever his missions take longer than expected to complete do not count), but he’s not quite sure he understands why. “You said it would be just the two of us.”

Ah.

The kettle whistles and Credence sees it as an opportunity to turn away from Percival. When he comes back to the table he’s bearing two steaming mugs of coffee. It’s as if the newspaper incident --the _just the two of us_ , his brain supplies-- never happened.

 

 

“Let’s go to the lighthouse.”

A light tan that is just on this side of rosy has spread all over Credence’s usually marble-white skin. His hair looks impossibly darker as do his eyes, framed by thick wet lashes.

“Race you to it,” Percival says, and runs.

He runs so fast the world becomes a blur, and he’s reduced to the feeling of the morning gale lifting him off the ground and the laughter from Credence treading a few paces behind. His feet are unsteady as they sprint over the sand, but that cannot stop him. He wants to run away from Credence, yet he can only picture _him_ as his journey's end.

The boy has become the end and the start and the end of Percival’s existence.

He’s panting by the time they make it to the lighthouse; Credence having shortened the distance in the last twenty feet.

“Mercy Lewis,” he heaves, the sun setting every bit of exposed skin ablaze.

Percival takes a deep breath that burns his nostrils and is a sharp reminder of how young Credence is compared to him.

He lives in a place Percival had almost forgotten.

“Come on, director Graves,” mutters Credence insolently taking him by the hand and guiding him up the steps.

Beneath the boiling sun, the sand looks almost as white as the first snow, and the shriek of the birds is more chaotic this side of the beach.

His breath is not yet collected, but he’s perfectly alright.

 

 

The view from the lighthouse beats the one of the city and the park that can be seen from their apartment. It’s like standing on top of their own little world, where the days are spent in a rich haze of sapphire and salt, and the nights exist only for them to stargaze wrapped up in each other, heartbeats volatile.

Credence does not let go of his hand until they’ve come down.

 

 

Fresh out of the shower, and rinsed off most of the sand, Percival pads to the living room and his heart, feeble old thing, stutters when he sets eyes on Credence. He’s asleep on the couch, lying sideways with wet hair plastered to his forehead and lips swollen by a sunburn.

 _Just the two of us_ , Percival remembers.

He doesn’t want to dwell on those five words, but it’s hard not to think about them when they’re all there is. They _are_.

Ever since the they’ve met, it’s only ever been the two of them, even if they’re amidst a crowd of thousands. Percival has Credence and Credence has Percival, and it’s just the way things should be.

The way Percival wants –needs things to be.

He crouches next to Credence, and runs his fingers through the inky black mane speckled with grains of sand.

His voice is a figment of his imagination, almost, “Please, don’t leave,” he whispers.

Because Credence is young and has his whole life ahead of him, a life of unbridled happiness and adventures, and Percival has lived too little for too long, only now awakened by the faintest graze of this boy’s kind soul.

“Stay with me.”

Because Percival wants to give all of himself to Credence, even the parts that are shameful and infuse many hopeless nights with blood-curling nightmares.

Because he already belongs to Credence, even if the boy still ignores it.

“I can make you happy, darling, can’t I? I will … I promise I will.”

There’s a wild creature rattling in his ribcage, it wants to break his bones and dive straight into Credence’s heart.

Percival stares at the flutter of dark lashes, marvels at the pronounced curve of his lips, and places a chaste kiss in the space between Credence’s brows.

He retrieves the novel he brought with him from his bedroom, and sits on the chair across Credence’s sleeping figure.

Percival does not read a single page conscientiously, and then falls asleep.

 

 

“Ah, here it is! _Countless as the sands of sea are human passions, and not all of them are alike, and all of them, base and noble alike, are at first obedient to man and only later on become his terrible masters._ ”

Evening has fallen, and Percival, as requested by Credence, reads aloud one of his predilect phrases from his novel. He finds Gogol’s words ring with acrimonious truth.

Right now, as the words leave his mouth to join the sounds of the receding waters, Percival thinks of the base and noble concoction that are the feelings he harbors for Credence. How he’d thought at first he had any control over this love-struck beast, but he’s being proved wrong.

Completely.

Credence is a force of nature, raging as a thunderbolt and mighty as an earthquake. He alone could shatter Percival to pieces with a simple stare, and just as easily he could put him back together.

“Is that bad?” Credence asks.

It takes Percival a couple of seconds to remember Credence is referencing the quote he’s just read. The boy is most likely associating ‘passions’ with the Obscurus, and although the parasitic entity has mostly become a ghost that dwells in their past, it remains a sore spot for Credence.

“No. Not necessarily. It’s like… Alright, it’s like when you like something so much it becomes a passion. It’s not inherently bad, on the contrary, passions are the most powerful motivators, but they can consume you,” Percival says, ignoring the incipient remorse in the pit of his stomach, “Like when you love something, or rather _someone_ so passionately and honestly it makes you mad. It leaves you empty because --because you’ve given too much of yourself away, and then you start to wonder if there’s even anything left of you anymore.”

“Oh.”

Credence opens his eyes, and stares up at Percival from where he’s lying on the blanket they’ve laid on the sand. His feet are damp and coated in white, his face a lovely shade of pink under the evening sun.

Percival is a besotted fool, but he’s not yet abandoned all dignity. He keeps quiet, renewing his reading, or at least doing his best to put on a show of doing so, while hiding his face behind the red cover of the book.

 “Have you ever loved someone like that?” Credence asks.

In that instant, Percival does not think of himself as himself. Not quite. Instead, he speaks with disembodied voice, detached from the turmoil that constricts his heart with iron grip.

“Yes,” he answers without looking at Credence, wanting nothing less than scream the very opposite.

No, he is _not_ in love! No, he is _not_ dangling by the thinnest thread right now. No, he does _not_ want to ravish Credence’s red lips until they hurt and the boy is left a debauched mess in the safe cradle of his arms.

No.

But again, he says, “Yes.”

A simple word that becomes the last nail in his self-fabricated coffin.

 

 

“No, you’ve got to raise your wrist a little higher. Like this,” he’s guides Credence’s arm into a graceful motion, and repeats the incantation, “ _Wingardium leviosa._ ”

This time the kite does go up, and aided by the breeze stays there, trying to climb higher into the skies.

“Isn’t this a bit like cheating?” muses Credence with a wide grin on his face, awed at the yellow cloth of silk swaying up above.

“Cheating? No, no, my boy. This is magic. Cheating is for no-majs who don’t know any better.”

Credence huffs at the logic, and glances over his shoulder at Percival.

They fly the kite until the winds lose their bravado and their stomachs grumble in protest, and Percival does his best to conceal the thrilling satisfaction of having been so near Credence to have smelled seafoam from his hair.

 

 

The wind decides to regain its zeal just when they start a bonfire. It brings back memories of Percival’s younger years, when he thought it the greatest adventure to drink himself into oblivion before setting his life plan on track. He succeeded in both, but he was astronomically wrong about both of them too.

The greatest adventure and his only life plan is sitting on a log, wearing an oversized sweater that makes him appear smaller than he actually is, hugging his knees close to his chest while staring at the fire with quiet wonder.

Percival has happily taken to the task of skewering the marshmallows. When he’s done he passes one over to Credence, and together they wait for the heat of the flames to toast the downy softness of the overly-sugary confections.

“Ouch!”

He’s not finished blowing on his own, when he hears Credence’s shriek. The boy is sticking out his tongue, hand flailing.

Percival takes the stick from Credence, and takes hold of his hand, “Does it hurt?”

Credence’s dark eyes, made even more entrancing thanks to tendrils of fire burning just a few feet away, are teary, but the boy shakes his head, and, with minuscule voice that breaks somewhere in the middle, says he’s alright.

It was a bit too hot, he says.

I wasn’t thinking, he adds embarrassed.

Percival offers back the improvised skewer, and waits for Credence to have his first bite, greedy to introduce Credence to simple delights such as this, but instead Credence takes the stick and offers _him_ the heated marshmallow speared at the tip.

He can only stare blankly at the boy, searching for hints of _something_ in his face, but those youthful features have learned to school themselves to survive, and so, Percival is left adrift, leaning closer, inching towards the proffered sweet. His blood molten just like caramelized sugar, boiling within his veins, exploding at the cloying taste that invades the insides of his mouth.

He does the same to Credence, because this game was made for two, and frankly, Percival has never been so powerless over his own actions in all his fucking life.

When Credence moans at the richness of the flavor, Percival sees stars in his eyes, and, without regards to propriety, sits closer to Credence, thighs touching.

And the fire licks at many more a marshmallow, and the ocean echoes its miserable tune same as always, and Credence, prisoner of a drowsiness that makes his limbs all the heavier, ends up burying his face in the crook of Percival’s neck.

The soft puffs of air that brush over his skin taste sweeter than any marshmallow ever could.

 

 

“Stay.”

It’s the word the hears after he’s laid Credence down on his bed. He looks so small there by himself, but Percival knows better. He knows Credence is anything but. If one must be declared weak and small, it’d be him, not Credence.

There is a jar halfway-filled with seashells sitting on the bedside table, he notices.

“Please,” he hears in that sleep-ridden voice once more.

Were he a better man he’d ignore it, but Percival is not a better man. He’s barely a good man, and that is only if one overlooks the worst of his deeds.

“Please?”

He stays.

 

 

In the early hours of the morning, in that special lapse when it’s past nighttime but the sun is yet too idle to rise from its bed, the tide has risen dramatically.

The windows of the cabin are ample, and open as they are, it’s almost as if they were out in the sea, lying on a mattress that floats above the water, drifting them farther and farther beneath the dim velvety vault, guiding them to a place tucked deeply in the folds of the Earth, never to be found.

The faint, calm breathing of Credence and the rhythmic rise and fall of his thin chest pressed to his side lull Percival back to sleep.

He dreams of waves and spume and sun-kissed lips that taste like liquid joy.  

 

 

He opens his eyes to the sea breeze blowing over his skin and the brush of a curtain grazing over his leg. His lids feel heavy, and honey-toned flares dust his vision as he blinks into consciousness.

Credence is sitting cross-legged at his side, contemplating him with seriousness, chin propped on his hand.

Percival clears his throat.

“M’rning… Everything alright?”

The precarious struggle of many months ruined by a single unwise decision, Percival realizes, heart sinking as deep as the bottom of the ocean will allow.

He’s in love with Credence Barebone, and it’s eating him from the insides.

And Credence knows.

He must know, by now.

“No,” replies Credence, with a scowl crinkling his face, “Nothing is alright. It’s all _wrong_ , Percival.”

 _This_ , he does not say. He doesn’t need to. Percival knows.

He’s always known.

It’s a sharp-fanged truth that he’s turned a blind eye upon. Loving Credence from afar is easy, there’s no harm, and no one but him ends up getting hurt.

It’s the way cowards love, and Percival is a coward when it comes to Credence. All courage walks out on him whenever Credence is nearby, as if he could topple Percival’s hard-earned resilience with a single sweet puff of his breath.

Before Credence Percival lays down his weapons and falls to his knees.

Before Credence Percival is weak.

“Why would you buy a house here?”

Percival props himself up, not willing to have this talk in a defenseless supine position. The wooden headboard groans as he leans on it.

His vision is blurry around the edges, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling the weariness out of his system, deflating any residue of ego that might turn this on Credence, since the last thing he wants is to put any blame on his boy.

His temper is well-known by all of MACUSA, but Percival can’t fuck this up.

“Credence,” he begins, not sure what could possibly follow. A love declaration? Might drive Credence away. A sack of lies? Would only make his brain heavy with guilt, and would indubitably besmirch Credence’s good faith in him.

Credence crawls up to him and stares anxiously, pupils searching for the telltale that will expose Percival’s secret to him. The effect of his attention is immediate, commencing by an itch under Percival’s skin, followed by the pang of hunger that got him in trouble in the first place.

Lust gives room to vindication, but love… Love is the keen lance held by the knight.

“Percival?”

“Because I thought it’d make you happy, my boy. Because I’d do anything to make you happy,” and it’s the truth, blunt and dense, and admitting it out loud, to Credence, feels more exhilarating than the thrill of the hunt on a murderous case.

He sees understanding dawning on Credence, can almost hear the gears of his brain falling into place at the realization. He won’t impose himself on his boy, but Credence, he has a right to know the all-consuming love he can inspire.

Percival tells himself (and perhaps he is lying) that taking off his masquerade is an act of kindheartedness.

“Anything,” he repeats.

Languid waves creep towards the shoreline, their gurgling hum permeating the atmosphere with a sense of placidity and candor.

After two days playing in the sun, and prancing in the sea Credence is positively glowing, and the dark mop of hair is a lovely contrast to his peachy-hued complexion. The bed sheets, rumpled, are white linen. They crease further when Credence shortens the abyss between them.

“Percival,” Credence says, punching the air out of him by calling his name with such untainted care, “Percival, would you do something for me, please?”

His answer comes too fast, intoxicated as he is by the scent and heat and sight of Credence. By having him practically on his lap. He cannot be anything less than a devoted servant. “Yes.”

“Could you –would you kiss me?”

 

 

Kissing Credence is like drinking the sun, but sweeter. The boy is the perfect mixture of virtue and eagerness, and he reciprocates Percival’s ministrations with a fervent zeal that is contagious. Percival, in return, abandons himself to the scorching gush of lust and love that crashes against him like a tidal wave against a rocky coast.

They kiss and bite and gnaw and suck, their tongues twirling gently one moment only to spar violently the next, until they’re gasping and their lungs tingle and sweat starts to pearl their heated bodies.

Credence moans and mewls, and his breathing is a little worrying, but Percival can’t stop himself from drinking crude pleasure from the plush pair of saliva-smeared lips.

He needs _more_ of Credence; he needs _all_ of him.

He decides the juncture of Credence’s neck is one of his favorite places in the world: warm, pulsing, soft. Percival’s dedication to it has Credence keening and quivering.

When he licks a stripe along the elegant neckline, and worries the spot beneath his ear, Credence yelps.

Percival can’t shake off the feeling that there is something wicked about what he’s doing to Credence, his boy of honey and milk and morning prayers. But Credence, as if trying to prove him wrong, arches his back and swarms a litany of _please_ , hips thrusting upwards involuntarily.

They grind their crotches together, clothed hardened lengths bumping into each other, the friction making their hairs stand on edge. The sweltering sun has caused the fabrics of their clothes to rapidly stick to their frames, and the extra layers become unbearable, as does the lack of Credence in his mouth.

So, he kisses him again, hard, wanting to consume Credence the same way he’s been consuming Percival for these past months.

“We can come back here whenever you wish, darling,” Percival will say a day later, as they lie exhausted on the bed.

But right now, the bed is not still, and neither of them are they exhausted. Nevertheless, Percival wants to take this slow though, because Credence is young and maybe a little confused, and there is not a thing beyond Credence.

Everything Percival craves and cherishes is here, and he won’t let his baser instincts ruin it.

“I love you, my boy,” he says in Credence’s ear, feeling the body beneath his shiver with delight and ecstasy as he wraps a hand around the boy’s cock, “…my darling, _darling_ boy. Oh, I love you _so_ much.”

The head is wet with abundant precum when he thumbs the slit, eliciting a broken sob from Credence’s open lips. He rubs it with more passion than panache, letting Credence’s noises dictate the pace. Slow, slow. And then, when Credence is silent a bit too long, Percival goes fast. Fast. Faster. Stroking the swollen member with slickened hand, twisting a little midway, then pressing tighter around the girth.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Credence,” he says, as pleading eyes start to well up.

He presses a kiss to Credence’s temple, and renews the motion of his wrist, stroking faster now, a heathen looking for redemption in Credence’s climax.

Percival’s underwear has become too restrictive. Tight. Regardless, he feels his own pleasure mounting, fed by Credence’s vocal pleasure, even more, heightened because of it.

It only takes a few more tugs, and then Credence is spilling thick ropes of white across his belly, panting like when they raced to the lighthouse, and failing, just as back then, to properly catch his own breath.

This time however, he rests limp and clammy in Percival’s arms.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he whispers to a wide-eyed Credence who’s still navigating the last currents of his orgasm, “You were great, love. You were beautiful.”

 

 

“We can come back here whenever you wish, darling,” says Percival, after having drank Credence’s seed with obvious relish.

It’s the last day of their weekend, and, at work, a pile of paperwork awaits patiently for him. As for Credence, he too must go back to his studies. Not to mention, someone should take care of Crook, the owl. Merlin knows he’s too egotistical to partake with his kin.

As much as they want to live within this dream of toes kissed by the seafoam and mornings filled with the song of the seagulls, their lives are bound to the buzz of the city.

“I recall you said you were too busy with work,” Credence says, voice dripping with blitheness, “director Graves.”

Percival scowls, and nuzzles Credence’s neck in retaliation, the rough shadow of his beard causing undiluted, frantic laughter to bubble from Credence’s core, drowning out all that is not that them.

Once the laughing fit relents, Credence’s eyes twinkle dreamily and as he skirts a finger over Percival’s bare chest he says, “See, this place… I love it, it’s beautiful, really. But – the beach and the sea and the cabin... You said they made me happy. But they didn’t, Percival. You did. Us, like this. Together.”

 

 

One night, illuminated by the generous moonlight, Credence will shine like silver. The strands of his hair splayed capriciously over the pillow will make him seem like an aquatic creature, and his thighs will tremble, milky as froth, once Percival breaches his entrance. They’ll roll like the waves, slow and unhurried, drenched bodies dampening the sheets. The lewd squelching noises as they rock back and forth will be the sound of the ocean as it crawls into the sand, and like a stormy sea they’ll rage and howl, and finally overwhelmed, they’ll find solace.

And just like the ocean, they’ll begin anew.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> quote is from Nikolai Gogol's 'Dead Souls'  
> i'm weak and i need validation (and 15 hours of sleep)
> 
> fangirl with me on tumblr: [elvishflower](http://elvishflower.tumblr.com/)


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